


complete your transactions and get the fuck out

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, I know, I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>burr is gay at the Library.</p><p>I don't normally write; I'm more of a comix kinda guy, so this is kind of scary</p>
            </blockquote>





	complete your transactions and get the fuck out

It's about 8 when Burr wanders into the public library with an armful of books and a head full of caffeine.

At _his_ usual spot, Burr finds Hamilton passed out on top of the keyboard of his laptop, a string of f's steadily marching their way across the screen. Hamilton looks an absolute mess. Burr wants nothing more than to run his fingers through Hamilton’s tangled hair, but instead he settles for gently pulling Hamilton's laptop out from under him and saving the open file, f's and all.

Staring at Hamilton's face ingloriously squished against the desk, Burr can't help but be concerned at how dark the bags under his eyes are (not to mention the number of empty 5-hour energy bottles littering his desk; that absolutely cannot be good for his heart). Burr huffs and closes Hamilton's laptop perhaps a bit harder than he should, places it on the chair next to Hamilton, and settles down at the next table, intent on cramming for his calculus test.

It's about 10 when Hamilton awakes. He looks ridiculous— his eyes are wild with half-forgotten dreams, his right cheek is branded with the wood grain of the desk, and his hair resembles the fur of a freshly blow dried poodle.

“Burr? What time is it?”

“Its…” Burr checks his impeccably stylish watch. “...like 10.”

"Well, shit.”

Presumably in search of his laptop, Hamilton frantically pats the papers in front of him, stopping when he finally spots his laptop on the chair next to him. He lifts it into his lap, simultaneously bringing up his knees so that he’s sitting squished between chair and desk

“For future reference, I'd have appreciated it if you woke me up earlier, but, then again, you were probably just trying to sabotage my grade on tomorrow's calc test,” Hamilton remarks sardonically while entering the password to his laptop, not looking at Burr.

“You definitely needed the sleep,” Burr said, also not looking at Hamilton. 

Hamilton hums with distaste. Initially, Burr thinks Hamilton was responding to his comment on Hamilton's sleep schedule, but he soon realizes Hamilton was probably just looking at the 17 pages of f's on the screen in front of him. Burr is embarrassed for a second, that he's still thinking about it. He shakes his head. Right. Back to Taylor polynomials.

They sit in some kind of silence for a while. Burr has moved on to biology, attempting to concentrate on the mechanics of DNA transcription, but Hamilton is so fucking distracting. He types loudly, like he's playing a Beethoven concerto or something (though Burr happens to know that Hamilton is absolutely fucking tone deaf). He makes these little sighs and huffs and noises as he writes and Burr’s pretty sure that he's whispering to himself, too. Burr can't help noticing the way he sits, either. He's slumped in his seat, knees still to his chest and laptop digging into his thighs. He's slowly sliding downwards, too, like ice cream melting down a wall. Not that Burr is staring at him. It's just that Hamilton looks so uncomfortable— how can that possibly be comfortable?

Hamilton sits himself upright again and Burr looks away. He checks his watch— its nearly 11 pm. He should be heading home soon; the library's closing soon anyways and he has to walk home.  Burr packs up his things, too tired to try any harder at neatness than shoving all of his papers haphazardly in the middle of his calc book.

Hamilton finally looks up from his work. When he speaks, he sounds uncharacteristically soft and hesitant.

“Can i drive you home, Burr? I don't like the idea of you walking home alone this late.”

“You're not my goddamn girlfriend, Hamilton. Remind me, how many times did you fail your driving test, again?” (Maybe that was too sharp, but Burr is dismayed. Hamilton is never hesitant.)

"Oh, fuck off." Hamilton sticks out his tongue. 

Burr ends up sitting back down. Why does he even try?

Hamilton finishes up his work, which means saves his document thrice (for good luck) and throws all of his things into an ink-stained backpack. Hamilton throws a tired, beaming smile at Burr just as the library's PA system crackles on and tells library patrons (though Burr is pretty sure he and Hamilton are the two library patrons left) to "complete their transactions and get the fuck out". Burr almost laughs; the kid working the evening shift really does not give a shit.

Hamilton and Burr march out into the humid night in companionable silence. The moon is out; Burr takes a deep breath of the muggy air.

Burr almost trips over a rock in the parking lot but luckily Hamilton probably doesn't notice.

Hamilton's beat-up Prius is parked at the end of the street, half on the curb.

“After you, my darling,” Hamilton sings, facetiously holding the door open for Burr. Burr's much too tired to care but he musters a glare through the window as Hamilton laughs and shuts the door.

The backseat and the trunk are so full of shit that Burr has to hold Hamilton's backpack in his arms, as well as his own. He's so tired. He rests his cheek on Hamilton's stained backpack. It smells goddamn gross; what kind of shit does Hamilton carry around? Burr lets himself doze off as Hamilton tries to pull off of the curb. Burr's probably not going to die, he reassures himself; there aren't very many other cars at this hour that Hamilton could run into.

“Burr."

“Burr, wake up. We’re here. At your house.” He has that voice again, the soft, tentative voice. Something in Burr's chest feels like its going to burst. He needs to get out right now.

“Thanks for the ride, Hamilton,” Burr says roughly. He struggles to open the door (goddamn thing doesn't work unless you press the handle just so).

"Hey," Hamilton whispers.

Burr stops fumbling with the car door and gazes at Hamilton tiredly (he is so fucking tired). " _What_ , Alexander?"

"Thanks for saving my Word document earlier."

"Oh... oh, it's no problem. File managing accidents are a real problem, and I know you'd have done the same for me. I mean, you were practically drooling on your keyboard, what else could I have done?" Burr is rambling. This is getting bad.

Hamilton sighs. "I'll see you tomorrow at school?" Hamilton places his warm palm over Burr's hand --oh, he's just reaching for his backpack, but why does Burr suddenly feel as if he's been skewered through the middle? 

He nods back at Hamilton and finally manages to finagle the car door open. Burr flees down his walkway, and-- figures, can't find his damn key. He pats his back pockets again; there it is.

Door: open.

Backpack: floor.

Lungs: a sigh of relief. 

Hamilton waits until he sees Burr safely shut the door before driving home.


End file.
